


Four and Half Seasons

by Sophisme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Happiness is found in odd places, M/M, Survival, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisme/pseuds/Sophisme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter, the saviour of Light, finds himself balancing somewhere between what he is and what he should be. The good thing about hitting the rock bottom is that the only way is up. And if Harry has to drag Draco Malfoy with him on his way up, well, then he will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer 1998

**Author's Note:**

> Since this was written to fend off writer's block and purely for my own personal entertainment, do not expect a literary masterpiece. Fair warning for slow updates and a myriad of grammar and spelling mistakes.

When Harry Potter lives, he does so with every inch of his being. He loves with his whole heart and fights with his entire soul.

When Harry Potter dies, he does so with silent acceptance, because that is the honourable thing to do.

But the world is a cold-hearted bastard and nothing is enough to satisfy its hunger for irony. So, Harry keeps on living and Voldemort dies, instead.

Harry doesn't quite know what to do after that.

…

Uncertain weeks follow the Battle of Hogwarts.

Everyone is grieving and no one is quite sure if celebrating is appropriate. Relief is allowed, but even then it is present only in careful, barely there, smiles. The Ministry tries to rearrange itself; families attempt to move on with what little they have left; people are desperate to pull themselves together and to move onwards, leaving the sadness and desperation behind.

Harry stands in the middle of it all, awkward and uncomfortable like the teenager he is, while people look up to him with wonder in their eyes. No one seems to understand that Harry just _didn't die_ , and that everything else that happened was nothing but a great string of accidents and freak coincidences. No one understands anything, least of all Harry himself.

"I hope you know, Mr. Potter," Professor—no, she's the Headmistress now—McGonagall says only days after the Battle, "That my door is always open."

Harry forces on a slightly deranged smile and assures that everything will be fine. He will be fine. The entire world will be just fine. Fine, fine, fine, he repeats the word like a broken record, until McGonagall starts to look even more worried. He flees her office as soon as excuses come to him.

"Should you ever wish to lift the veil of mystery on these tragic times, Mr. Potter," says the journalist from the _Daily Prophet_ and fixes on an appropriately emphatic expression, "We will _always_ have time to hear your side of the story." And despite everything, Harry doesn't punch the reporter in his sleazy face. Barely.

"Harry, you know, you can come to me anytime, don't you?" Hermione reminds him, as sadness and worry twist her features. They both know that Harry will never take her up her offer, but neither of them addresses that invisible wall that stands there right between them.

"Mate. . . I just. . . You know," Ron mumbles. Of course Harry understands, but he doesn't reply, because in the end Ron understands, too.

Talk, talk, talk, it's all that people seem to be expecting of him now. But Harry doesn't want to talk. He wants to scream and break things and curl into himself afterwards and just forget. That is what _he_ wants and eventually decides that it is what he deserves.

And so, Harry disappears.

He withdraws into the Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, lies on the dusty sitting room floor for two days and stares at the ceiling. On the third day, Kreatcher tells him to move and smears dust around with a filthy mop for a while. Harry doesn't know what to do with himself during this unexpected interruption, so he merely hoovers nearby. When the house elf is done, he nods his head curtly; a strange pop of its wobbly head. It is a clear permission for Harry to continue whatever it was he had been doing before.

All Harry can do then is laugh. He laughs until he cries and then he keels over back onto the floor and laughs some more.

It takes a few more hours, but eventually the mirth and the soul-deep desperation subside. Harry gets up slowly and asks Kreacher for some tea.

…

The problem is that, in the very end, the world is still the same but Harry himself is something different.

He has served his purpose. Most of the time he feels like he's living on borrowed time and the rest of the time he wonders if he's living at all. All the waiting is driving him insane, especially since he has no idea what he's waiting for. Time passes unbearably slowly when there's nothing to do and no reason to run anymore.

"Don't run _from_ , run _to_ ," says wisely the Black woman dressed in scarlet silks and enclosed in golden frames. She probably never ran in her life when she still lived, so she certainly should be giving such advice in her death. When Harry flips her the bird, another painting begins to fling Harry insults he has never heard before. They seem as bored as Harry feels, so Harry doesn't mind.

Everything falls into a strange balance, where Harry haunts the abandoned house so long that it is no longer abandoned and but the signs of life spread through time and dust and memories. Eventually the paintings, the last remnants of the Blacks, accept his presence and Harry becomes one of theirs. The thousand eyes are ever watchful, but not so much judging anymore.

When Mrs. Black moves on from screaming to sharp words and deep sneers, Harry knows he's very far gone. And thus, he hides in the dusky silence of Number Twelve and counts the seconds, minutes, hours, and days ticking away.

…

It's mid-June when he remembers the Dursleys.

When Harry arranges their return to their home and is there to welcome them, too, he isn't stupid enough to expect gratitude. His uncle shoots him one cold look and shoves past Harry into the house, as if Harry wasn't even standing there on the front steps of Number Four Privet Drive. His aunt, however, stops to give him a slow and searching look, before her lips tighten into a narrow line.

"So, you live," Aunt Petunia says, no emotion entering her tone.

Harry offers her a wry little smile. "That's what I do."

His aunt's lips purse with displeasure, but she offers a stiff nod of acknowledgement. She picks up a box full of her personal items, before stands up tall and sure and says, "After this day, I never want to see you on our doorstep again."

"And you won't," Harry promises wholeheartedly. He helps his aunt to carry the boxes and bags into the house, because it seems like the thing to do. Aunt Petunia doesn't as much as glance at Harry again, but Harry can't bring himself to care. Instead he grasps greedily that small sign of normality and allows himself to bask in it for the brief while.

When Harry stands outside of his relatives' house for the last time and stares at the familiar silhouette of the house, he doesn't feel anything at all. If it was the wish for closure that brought him here, then he'll leave empty-handed. Under Harry's stare, the door cracks open and Dudley steps through into the yard. He digs through his pocket for a moment, brings out a cigarette and lights it.

"That's an awful habit," Harry tells him.

His cousin grunts a noncommittal answer and draws the smoke in.

"So, um," Dudley begins, more hesitant and awkward than Harry has ever seen him before, "What happened to that. . . bad guy?"

"I killed him," Harry tells simply. It feels strange to say the words aloud; somehow they make it more final.

"Oh, that's good," Dudley replies and nods a little. "Are you alright? You look a little. . ." He makes a vague wave with his left hand.

"Yes, well, he killed me first," Harry tells and takes pleasure in the flash of horror on Dudley's face when the information sinks.

Dudley stammers for a moment, clearly struggling not to bolt. "Erm, well, I'm glad you're better now?" he manages to force out, eventually.

Harry stares after him. "Yeah, me too," he mutters to himself bitterly.

They spend next few minutes in silence, Dudley smoking and Harry just standing there, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Well, see you around then," Dudley says finally, when he's done and nods at Harry before he disappears into the house again.

Harry stares after him for a second, before smiles a little, an almost delighted little grin.

"No, you won't," Harry says and Disapparates.

…

Eventually Harry comes to think of Grimmauld Place as something more than just an old house.

One day he notices that he always drinks his tea from the same mug, simply because it's his favourite. The soft nook of the sitting room sofa becomes his favourite spot, because it's close enough to the fireplace and slightly more comfortable than the antique chairs. After some time, he doesn't have to rummage through all the cupboards in the kitchen, but finds what he's looking for without even thinking about it. He picks up the habit of drawing images into the dust that covers the windows in the second floor hallway.

He settles into one of the upstairs bedrooms. He doesn't spend much time there, only sleeps there when he feels up to it, and yet, somehow his stuff migrates from his trunk and spreads haphazardly around the room without him noticing it. There are his few school books, tossed all around the desk in front of the window. The invisibility cloak lies on the chair next to it. His clothes are sewn across the floor. Whenever Kreacher sees it fit to put them away into the wardrobe, Harry can never find them.

It might not be perfect, but it something to call both: his and home.

After all, he has nowhere else to go, so it seems only logical.

…

In the beginning of July Hermione and Ron leave for Australia.

Hermione is determined to find her parents, whereas Ron is determined not to let her out of his sight for that long. They are young and hopelessly in love. Just being in the same room with them feels like intruding on something intimate and sacred. Therefore, when they ask Harry to tag along to wherever they are going, her refuses politely. He's a nice friend like that.

"You'll be alright, won't you Harry?" Hermione asks the night before they're due to depart.

Harry offers a reassuring smile that he has mastered to near perfection and says, "Of course I will."

She doesn't look particularly reassured; a slight frown still mars her brow.

"Promise me you won't lock yourself up to that awful house for all summer," she demands and gives Harry such a concerned look that he can't help but feel guilty.

"I won't," he promises and can't even tell if it's a lie or not.

"Yeah, mate. If you don't watch it, you'll end up like Kreacher," Ron says and grins. "Just imagine the headlines."

Harry laughs along with him, but even to his own ears that laugh sounds hollow and tinted with madness.

They eat dinner together that night and pretend that everything between them is like it once was. They are three friends in a childishly simple and easy friendship, nothing more and nothing less. They joke and laugh like teenagers they are, but underneath it all they are still three war veterans, solemn and worn out by death and darkness and destruction. Voldemort's ghost sits at the table with them, silent and daunting, but just for tonight they are happy to ignore it.

The next day they are gone off to Australia.

Harry remains right where he is; stationary stuck in the past.

…

When Harry receives an unwelcome letter from the Ministry, he almost leaves it unopened. It sits on the sitting room table for three days, before Harry reluctantly reaches for it and cracks the seal open. One glance and Harry can already tell that it is an invitation of some kind and he is already walking towards the fireplace, ready to burn the wretched thing, before he actually begins to understand the words that stand on the parchment.

A memorial to the fallen, the letter says, and Harry's heart aches. When his knees give out, there's an uncomfortable dusty armchair to catch him. He sits there for good ten minutes, head buried in his hands and harsh breaths tearing at his throat. Then he reads it again.

His reply is simple enough.

 

> _I'll be there.  
>  -H.P._

…

It's a complete disaster of course. Too many people are squeezed onto the small square on the Diagon Alley and they swarm and hover like a sea of restless flesh. Harry stands in the middle of it and something alarmingly close to panic strangles at his throat. After weeks of being surrounded by paintings alone, these masses of real, living people are just too loud and too alive for him to handle. His hands shake, but he hides it by stuffing them into his pockets.

He shoots a look at the Minister who's standing next to him.

"Pretty good turn up, isn't it?" Harry says and can't quite hide the nervous waver in his tone.

"Are you up to this?" Kingsley asks as his large hand settles comfortingly onto Harry's shoulder. "We will not force you to speak, if you do not want to."

Harry draws in a ragged breath, but nods anyway. "I can do this."

When he steps onto the little stage in front of the memorial that has yet to be revealed and looks upon the expectant faces before him, he isn't so sure anymore. He digs out the small slip of paper from his pocket and stares at the words written there in his wonky handwriting. They seem so insufficient now. He rips up the paper and tosses the pieces into the wind. An awkward shuffle runs through the audience, but Harry ignores it.

"I wrote some pretty words about loss," he says, "Meaningless words about what is true grief."

He says, "But I think you are the last people I need to lecture about grief and loss. You already know all about them or you wouldn't be here today."

He stops to take a look over his shoulder at the memorial and nods a little at the person in charge of it. The white cover falls off to reveal a simple and elegant marble stone. Onto its surface are carved the names of the fallen. Harry sighs a little, relieved. He had feared that the Ministry would go for something ostentatious and ridiculous, and both of those things were something the wizarding world definitely didn't need in times like these.

Harry turns back to his audience and speaks, "Somewhere upon this ridiculous rock there are actually important names. All these people were important to someone. They were our family, friends, loved ones, old school mates, co-workers… Each of these names has a story; who they were, what they did, who loved them, what they dreamt about.

"Voldemort's only dream was immortality. In a way he succeeded, because after all the terror and pain and grief he caused we will probably never forget about him. The only thing we can do now is to make sure that those who fought him will be just as immortal. We can remember, not just the end but the rest of their story, too."

He doesn't know what more to say, so he stops there and steps aside. A moment of silence passes, before some starts clapping slowly and hesitantly. It isn't an impressed applause that follows, but one that's full of silent sadness and understanding.

Harry feels sick to his core at how utterly trivial and pretentious this all seems. All these people have faced with death and true grief, and here Harry stands throwing empty words and lies in their faces. Harry doesn't _want_ to remember. More than anything he wants to forget.

Kingsley slaps a hand onto Harry's shoulder in the passing when he takes his turn on the stage. It takes some effort, but in the end Harry doesn't throw up on his shiny shoes.

…

Harry stands in front of the memorial and stares at the names. So many of them rang familiar in his mind, but even more of them are unknown to him. Strangers, all of them are dead, because Harry couldn't stop Voldemort sooner.

A gentle hand touches his shoulder and Harry startles nearly violently. He looks over his shoulder into the face of Andromeda Tonks.

"You spoke beautifully," she says and offers a ghost of a smile. In her arms, young Teddy Lupin gurgles an agreement and reaches for Harry's glasses with a wavering, aimless hand.

Harry has to tear his eyes away, because the sight of the child makes him nauseous with grief. "Thank you," he rasps out.

He takes a few calming breath, before turns to look at Andromeda again. "If there is anything _at all_ you ever need when taking care of him, come to me, alright? I will do my best to help in anyway," he says sincerely and forces himself to glance at Teddy's innocent round face again. Teddy blinks ones and his eyes bleed from brown to startling cerulean blue. And iron hand crushes Harry's heard and suddenly it's hard to breath.

"Thank you," Andromeda says in turn and nods slightly. Then her eyes wander over Harry's shoulder onto the memorial and lock upon a name there. She reaches out with a shaking hand and runs her fingers over the name of Nymphadora Tonks. Harry glances at her from the corner of his eyes and Andromeda looks right back. Her face is vacant, eyes empty. The resemblance to Bellatrix is tantalising and absolutely horrifying.

"Whether we won or lost, everything has gone to hell anyway," she says. She cradles young Teddy Lupin tighter in her arms—as if that simple gesture would be enough to protect the child from all of it—and walks away without another word or looking back.

Harry stares after her and her words ring hard and true in his ears.

…

Eventually Harry goes to Ginny. Of course he does.

She is the last ray of sunshine left from the time when Harry still remembered how to live. She is the last memory Harry has of the time when everything was better. Back then Harry loved her, or at least thought he did. Back then she was hope in the form of flesh and blood and happy smiles.

"Ginny," he says to her, desperate and pleading. A plea for help, for any kind of guidance she can offer.

"Harry," she replies curtly and the memory of her, the weak dream of hope, cracks like a crystal ball hit with a shattering charm.

She is not the girl Harry remembers. Before him stands a woman who has seen the War just as close as he has. She has grown harder and colder. Her optimism, that used to move mountains, has faded into calm realism. She is no longer hope, a dream, but reality and a very steady _truth_.

"How've you been?" Harry forces himself to ask, even though there's barely enough breathe left in his body to form the words.

"I'm fine. You?"

"Yes, I'm fine, too."

And again everything is fine, fine, fine, when nothing is and never will be. She offers a shade of her old smile and understands. She understands but can't fix it because she has no answers Harry is asking for. So, Harry leaves and he is now missing something he still had when he arrived.

It might very well be the last shard of his broken soul, Harry concludes and thinks of Voldemort.

…

And so, when everything else has failed, Harry does the first and last thing he can think of and searches for Voldemort.

Perhaps he is mad. Not just a little bit mad, like most people seem to be, but godforsaken bat shit insane.

When he arrives at the Ministry, gazes follow after him, hesitant greetings and endless questions run from each pair of lips. It seems like everyone just pauses in the middle of their daily life just to stare how Harry Potter walks through the Atrium. Harry hurries his steps, half-running and just wanting to get away.

He makes his way directly to the Minister's Office, stopping outside the room to be greeted by a bored looking young wizard.

"Do you have an appointment?" the young wizard drawls and Harry stops to stare.

"No," he admits.

"You can request an appointment either by a letter two weeks in advance or if your business is urgent—"

Harry cuts him short before he makes it to the end, "It's about Voldemort."

It's like killing flies with the Killing Curse, ostentatious and utterly unnecessary, yet oddly effective. The young man freezes, draws in a couple of sharp breaths and then stammers over incomplete sentences. It is almost like Harry just punched him in the face and the young assistant can't quite figure out how or why that came to pass.

"I would like to see the Minister now," Harry tells him.

"I. . . Well. . . Of course. . . I don't," the man tries and makes vague helpless gestures with his hands.

Harry sighs and firmly tells him to sit down. Then without further ado, he opens the door and steps into the Minister's office. Kingsley sits behind the desk, skimming over stacked piles of documents. When he looks up, there is a flash of surprise that quickly fades into polite interest.

"Ah, Mr. Potter," he says, nodding at the chair opposite from him, "I cannot say I was expecting you, but the surprise is most pleasant."

"I have to find Voldemort," Harry tells simply, without bothering to sit down.

The Minister of Magic freezes on his chair, a frozen mask of confusion and poorly hidden worry taking over his face.

"Harry," he starts, carefully placing his quill on the table and clearly weighing his words, "I do not know where this is coming from, but You-Know. . . Vol. . . _Voldemort_ is very much dead."

Harry scoffs. "I know that much. I'm not yet quite mad enough to think otherwise."

Kingsley looks oddly relieved for a moment, before he asks, "Then what do you mean?"

"His body. I know none of you knew what to do with it," Harry says, firm and certain in his decision. "I can take care of that."

Kingsley stares at him for a while, wordlessly, concern evident on his face. He carefully looks over Harry before he speaks and even then the words are reluctant.

"Harry," Minister Shacklebolt sighs and looks at him gravely, "You don't have to do this. You have done more than your part and no one would ask this of you."

Harry thinks about it for a while. When he speaks, all he says is, "I think this is something I have to do for myself."

Kingsley hesitates, before nods barely notably. "So be it."

…

In the attic of Number Twelve Harry finds a small silver chest decorated with green stones. In that box he stuffs the ash which is all that's left of the Dark Lord Voldemort and then he takes that chest and everything in it—and everything not in it, but yet somehow attached—to the only possible place he could take them.

Hogwarts still lays in sizzling ruins for most parts, but it seems to be slowly reconstructing itself, stone by stone, tile by tile. When Harry walks through those familiar hallways and under high reaching arches, no one is there to stop him. No living being appears to be present, no ghost floats past. Painted eyes follow his journey through the castle, but even the portraits remain silent.

He finds Myrtle in the first-floor girls' bathroom. She sits on one of the sinks and seems to be frowning at the shattered windows on the opposite wall. When Harry arrives she turns to look, but doesn't say anything. Harry stares back and wonders what to say.

"What have you got there?" she asks finally with her high, shrill voice and cocks her head to one side curiously. "The castle seems wary."

Harry lowers his eyes to the silver chest. "It's. . ." He doesn't finish, merely shrugs hopelessly.

"Why did you bring it here?" Myrtle asks and floats closer.

"It seemed like the right place."

"Here?" Myrtle asks and glances around at the leaking pipes and gurgling sinks.

"No. Down there," Harry says and nods towards the one sink which matters now.

"Oh," Myrtle says and purses her ghostly lips.

Harry draws in a breath, lets it out as a heavy sigh. "Myrtle, do you know why you died?"

Myrtle blinks, surprised. "I died because. . . the eyes were there. I told you once."

"I mean, _why_ not _how_."

Myrtle turns around, floats back and forth restlessly and wrings her hands. "They say the Chamber was opened. And I died because of that. I don't really know if it was true or not."

"It was opened, and in this box I have what's left of the one who opened it. Myrtle, your murderer is dead," Harry tells. He isn't sure why he feels the need to tell this, why he wants Myrtle to understand.

Myrtle looks at him, tilts her head to the other side. When she speaks, her voice is weak. "I wish he had lived. It feels like he is somehow closer now."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that.

He leaves her without another word, but then again, she seems equally unwilling to talk.

Harry makes his way down to the Chamber, into its eternal clammy chilliness. He rips a hole into the floor with magic, places the silver urn in there, before places the stone tiles back to where they were. It doesn't look like a remarkable grave, but just being buried in the Chamber of Secrets is probably more than Voldemort deserves.

Harry crouches down and runs his fingertips across the cool stones. He presses the tip of his wand against the grey stone floor and carves in the words:

_Here lies_   
_Tom Marvolo Riddle_   
_The Last Heir of Slytherin_

It's a childish jibe to use his real name, but it seems somehow appropriate in Harry's opinion. He stands there for a moment, wondering if he should say something, make some kind of a gesture or just leave and never return. Instead he crouches down once more and adds carefully, hesitantly, the words:

_May Death offer his soul peace Life never could._

When he walks away, he takes care not to look back. He is leaving, never to return, but somehow it feels like he is leaving something behind too. It is almost as if buried in that cold shallow grave there is some tiny part of Harry, too.

No matter how hard Harry tries to shake the unwelcome thought, it hounds after him even when Hogwarts' halls change into the dark corridors of his home.

"I'm a fucking wreck," Harry whispers into the silence of the Number Twelve.

Mrs. Black sneers down at him and agrees.

…

Then, when Harry has all but given up, the wind brings him an owl and that owl carries a letter. Out of all the unlikely people who might write to him Mr. Ollivander is the last, but it is his curiously messy signature that stands at the bottom of the letter. Harry reads it, twice, before sets it down with shaking hands and future stretch before him with peculiar, unexpected clarity.

When Harry writes a response, it consists of a single word.

 

> _Alright._


	2. Autumn 2008

When Draco Malfoy went to war, he wore a young man’s clothes. He had been so sure that somehow he would make it, despite the odds. What a fool.

When Draco Malfoy steps out of Azkaban, ten years have passed him by and he no longer quite remembers what sunlight looks like.

When he sees it again, it is a narrow ray of yellow light that pours into a cramped office through a filthy window and that light fills him with horrified apprehension.

But they are so proud to see him go that he doesn’t have the heart to ask to stay.

…

His parole Auror is Ginevra Weasley, of all people.                                                                           

She has grown into a serious woman with hard lines on her face and confidence in her eyes. It suits her, surprisingly, and Draco can barely recall the carefree, silly little girl she once was. Her stable presence calms him some, the dread for the future dissipating a little in the face of the past.

“Weasley,” he greets, stiffly but not impolitely.

She doesn’t reply but waves a graceful hand towards a chair. Draco sits obediently. They are at the Ministry now, in her office, and clearly on her own ground.

“You look dreadful, Malfoy,” she says first and makes Draco twitch self-consciously.

“I know,” he replies. He showered this morning, shaved and dressed nicely but it wasn’t enough to delude even himself. An unfamiliar face had looked back from the mirror, hallow and gaunt and nothing like the Draco Malfoy he remembers. He tries not to think about it too much.

“Good,” Weasley says and unexpectedly smiles a little.

Draco avoids her knowing eyes, glancing around her office and taking in the organized disorder that controls the space. There’s a picture on her desk, a moving photograph of a small dark-haired girl who grins widely at the camera and waves. Two of her front teeth are missing.

“Your daughter?” he asks, just to break the silence.

“Yes,” Weasly confirms. “She just turned five.” Her eyes soften ever so slightly when she glances at the picture.

“Hmm,” Draco replies and carefully doesn’t ask about Potter.

She clears her throat awkwardly and begins to explain practicalities: Stay in the country. No magic. Weekly check-ups. He sits there nodding silently while she talks. He tries not to be too obvious about it, but every time he glances at her he startles a bit, involuntarily. There are lines on her face, little etchings of time. They are subtle, but still _there_.

Ten years. He feels like the understanding of what that actually means is just beginning to dawn.

He interrupts her, “Do you know anything about my mother?”

She blinks, caught unawares in the middle of her speech. She swipes hair from her forehead, a nervous tic. “She’s at St. Mungo’s.”

He nods slowly. “I see.”

“Would you like to meet her?” she asks then and looks at him searchingly. “I could arrange it.”

He doesn’t have the time to think before a desperate, rough “no” escapes him.

She doesn’t question it, merely nods her acceptance and writes a few lines in her papers.

Draco wonders what happened to her family, but doesn’t care quite enough to ask.

…

He is assigned a flat at the edge of London’s wizarding district. It’s more of a shoebox than a flat, but he doesn’t care. There’s heating and there’s natural light, which is more than what he’s used to. Draco can feel the wards around the flat hum gently when he passes through them, and wonders if they are there to keep him in or to keep everyone else out.

It is strange, this newly found freedom. Not much has changed really, because the idea of leaving the flat doesn’t even cross his mind for the first few weeks. Instead, he spends hours standing by the window and staring at the world that flows by. That is definitely a luxury Azkaban sorely lacked. The world outside that window is a grey London street, dirty, dull and as rainy as ever. It is the most fascinating thing Draco has seen in ten years.

In his darker moments, it feels like a dream. Sometimes he thinks that he’s still there, in his comfortably dark little cell, waiting, and all _this_ is just a vision that his mind has conjured to appease him. In those dark moments he thinks that maybe insanity—if that’s what it is—isn’t so bad after all.

Actually, he thinks he’s doing quite alright, all things considered.

...

Weasley visits him on Fridays.

“How have you been?” she asks the first time she appears and takes a curious, apprising look around Draco’s new prison.

“It’s alright,” he says almost defensively, unsure if he’s talking about the flat or himself. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m fine.”

She looks him over and clearly doesn’t believe it for a second.

They talk. It’s almost nice in a way, even though Draco doesn’t really have anything to say. He listens, and hums and nods in all the right places. She hands him a stack of papers he has to read, takes a few signatures and pointedly mentions his mother a couple of times. He just hums and nods some more and lets her natter on. After a decade of deafening silence and ear-splitting screaming, her soft lulling voice is a welcome change.

“You do know you are allowed to go outside, don’t you?” Weasley points out after she has nothing else left to say.

Draco shrugs. “Where would I go?”

“You could visit friends, family perhaps,” she suggests as she begins to leave.

Draco quirks a sceptical brow and doesn’t say anything, but she seems to understand.

“Right,” is what she settles for in the end and finishes with a curt nod. “I’ll be back next week, then.”

“I’ll have tea ready,” Draco offers and she smiles a little. It is a silent agreement to make this as painless as they can.

Then she’s gone, the door snapping silently behind her. Draco stands there, in the middle of his small kitchen, unsure what to do next, what to do today, tomorrow, next week, next year. In the end he heaves a breath and wanders over to the window and gazes down to the quiet street outside.

For now that is enough. Perhaps it always will.

…

Nightmares haunt him day and night and sometimes it is hard to tell if the chill he feels is a memory or a dream. It seems like the cold of Azkaban has seeped into his very bones and that he can never quite shake it off. Draco cranks up the heating and hides under the duvet most days, but even then he can’t quite stop the shivering.

Sometimes he wakes up screaming and forgets where he is, stumbling blindly in panic and terror for long, slowly dragging moments, until he remembers again who his is and where. Going to sleep is even more of a hassle than waking up. His bed is too soft and even when the blinds are closed the room is flooded with weak light that keeps him up into the early hours of the morning.

But overall, he’s doing a lot better than he expected.

…

It is during Weasley’s fifth visit when she finally cracks and says, “You have to get out.”

Draco looks up from the empty teacup he’s been staring at, trying to interpret the leaves left at the bottom, and frowns at her. “What?”

There’s frustration in her tone when she says, “You have been huddled up here for _weeks_. This is a rehabilitation program. I don’t see you rehabilitating anytime soon if you carry on like this.”

Draco turns to look at his cup again, unsure how to respond. As his silence stretches, her irritation grows.

“You don’t even have to go anywhere. Just step outside. Walk around the park or just go stand in the middle of the street, for all I care. Just do _something_ ,” she orders.

He draws in a breath, sighs and shakes his head slowly. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” she asks. She sounds almost angry, but disappointed most of all. It’s alright. Draco’s used to being a disappointment.

He reaches across the table and gently places his teacup in her hands. Her gaze bounces a few times between the cup and him. A displeased downward quirk of her mouth demands an explanation.

“I can’t,” Draco repeats emphatically, before adds, “Because I think that’s the Grim. Better not risk it.”

He hasn’t said so many words at once in years, but it is worth it in the end. Her eyebrows climb high on her forehead and her confused gaze falls back to the teacup as she scrutinises the tea leaves. Then gradually, almost reluctantly, a muffled, silly little giggle escapes her, before she has the power to crush it completely. She looks almost startled then, as if she had forgotten she could make a sound like that.

She stands up quickly, elegantly, and completely in control again. Amusement lingers in the look she casts at him, but everything else about her speaks of sternness.

“I am very good at my job, Malfoy,” she says, “And I will not let you ruin my perfect record.”

He can only nod his acceptance at that. She oozes determination that he doesn’t have the power to fight against, so it is easier just to agree.

He walks her to the door and watches her leave.

Afterwards, he stands in the doorway, with the door slightly ajar, and stares into the hallway. He stands there for a long time and occasionally he can see movement as someone peers into the peephole in the flat opposite of his. He has no clue who his neighbours are, but neither does he care. They probably think him insane, standing here in his doorway like an idiot, if they already didn’t think so before.

Seconds stretch into minutes and minutes pile up into an hour, while he hesitates there. Eventually he reaches over and pulls the door closed. It locks with a soft click.

He can’t, just like he told Weasley.

But for now, with the door securely closed between him and the rest of the world, he’s doing just fine.

…

The simple fact is that Draco has no future and the past has passed him by long ago. He is stuck in some kind of a limbo between the two. He watches from the window how the world slowly turns, but for as long as he remains safe in this self-made prison not a thing out there can touch him.

It is better this way, he reasons. He is nothing but a relic of the past, an unwanted reminder of darker times.

The Dark Mark on his left arm has faded dull dark grey, but it is still there.

…

“You have to get out, Malfoy,” Weasley persists.

The next week she says, “You can’t stay in here forever.”

The week after that it is “This is ridiculous. Some fresh air would only do you good.”

Eventually, Draco stops responding and just morosely shakes his head every time.

And then, one Friday she appears like a fiery whirlwind waving a paper with official signets and signatures and Draco is robbed of the choice on the matter.

“It’s just one trip to Gringotts,” Weasley explains, “To sort out the inheritance and official paperwork. It will take half an hour at the most. If you want, I’ll even accompany you.”

Draco has a white-knuckled grip on the window frame as he stares down to the street again. For a brief, wild moment he wonders hysterically if the drop would be enough to kill him.

“I can’t do this,” he snarls through his teeth and shoots a pleading look towards Weasley. Perhaps there is an ounce of humanity and pity somewhere underneath her hard façade, perhaps a little mercy.

“It’s now or never. You’ll lose the inheritance, the properties, the titles, _everything_ , unless you do this,” Weasley tells him and proves herself heartless, “No one else can do this for you. You have to be present in person.”

“Then it can all burn. I don’t care,” Draco answers and tries to push down the panic that is bubbling in his chest.

“And how do you plan to pay your mother’s hospital bills then?” Weasley asks and it is a low blow. Draco flinches as if physically struck and then sags weakly against the wall behind him, staring at Weasley with wide accusing eyes.

“Fine,” he forces out. It is a weak strangled gasp, but he is surprised he manages that much.

Weasley nods her satisfaction. “Good. Do you want me to come with you?”

He exhales a weak, “No.”

She frowns a bit and for a moment it looks like she is going to argue. But then her expression smoothens and she nods again. “Alright. I expect this to be taken care of the next time I visit.”

Draco raises his gaze to her and spits out venomously, “ _Get out_.”

She doesn’t take insult, merely offers a small wry smile. “Till next week then.”

Only when the door snaps closed behind her, Draco allows himself to collapse to the floor and hyperventilates.

…

Draco tries to leave for Gringotts on Monday. He stands at the door for two whole hours, one hand on the door handle and heart beating a restless rhythm in his chest, before he gives up and withdraws. The next ten hours he spends by the window again, trying to convince himself that there is _nothing_ out there that could be worse than what he has always been through.

He tries to leave again on Tuesday. It takes half an hour this time, before he cautiously opens the door only to yank it back closed again. He double-checks the lock to make sure it stays that way.

He makes another attempt on Wednesday. After three hours he hates himself more intensely than ever before. The only reason why he refuses to give up is that Friday is coming up fast and Weasley’s “I told you so” will be more disheartening than his self-loathing could ever hope to be.

On Thursday he steps through the door, descends the stairs briskly and carries on down the street without pausing. He grinds his teeth together, casts his eyes downwards and refuses to stop. One step at the time, breathe in, breathe out. It’s easy if he concentrates.

Halfway to Leaky Cauldron and with sheer terror strangling at his throat, Draco begins to wonder if he will ever be alright again.

…

Diagon Alley looks untouched by time and the people look the same, even if the fashion has changed. Draco too feels the same, like an ugly dark smudge tarring this otherwise flawless world. He half expects someone to notice him, to point him out and say, “Death Eater” with disgust and fear and loathing. But no one pays him any attention; no one even looks his way. For some reason it makes him even more uncomfortable.

He feels almost relieved, when upon telling his name to the goblin banker, the creature’s face twists in to a scornful sneer.

“I see,” the goblin says and Draco can hear the insult and mockery in the words. He doesn’t mind, appreciates it even.

He signs papers in blood to prove his claim and nods agreeably when necessary. He receives keys he doesn’t intend to use and documents he will never read. The goblin looks about as reluctant to be there as Draco feels. It is utter waste of time, none of it matters, and Draco begins to suspect that this was merely something Weasley arranged in order to get him to leave the flat. Perhaps she is more devious that he has given her credit for.

“One last thing, Mr. Malfoy,” the goblin says and Draco hides a flinch and thinks about his father. The goblin reaches over and passes a large silvery signet ring to him. It weighs more than the cold, shimmering silver would suggest and it burns against Draco’s skin. The family crest glares back at him mockingly.

“I see,” he mumbles weakly and doesn’t know why he didn’t realise to expect this.

He is starting to feel nauseous, the harsh sounds and the bright lights wearing upon him more heavily every passing second. He quickly slips the signet ring into the safety of his pocket.

“If that is all. . .” he forces out, but doesn’t stay to wait for a response. This is all he can handle today, if there is anything else, it can wait.

The goblin must know this, because he sardonically calls after him, “Do come again.”

Draco makes a silent vow never to do just that.

…

He leaves Gringotts in haste, doesn’t quite run but hurries his steps a bit too much than what is appropriate. Outside it is a little easier to breathe but the cold sweat clinging to his skin stays. His hands shake unsteadily and he draws a calming breath, composing himself. What a pathetic display of weakness that was, a perfect example of what he has become. A mere memory of the past has rendered him into a nervously trembling wreck.

He bites his inner cheek hard and draws blood. The sting makes it easier to focus. He straightens his back with the sheer willpower and looks up and down the restlessly buzzing Alley. He is better than this, stronger than this, and he has to prove it. He has to prove it to himself, since there’s no one else left to set expectations.

A deep breath, firm spring in his gait, eyes forward. It _is_ easy if he concentrates.

His already flickering concentration gets the final blow before he manages ten steps from Gringotts’ doors. The blow comes in the form of a glittering and sparkling woman, hanging onto an arm of an equally finely dressed man.

“Draco? Draco Malfoy?” the woman squeals out, more inelegantly than her groomed exterior would have led to expect. A pale hand flies to her red-painted lips in surprise, stifling a gasp, a cry and a surprised laugh, all at once.

Draco stares, curses his bad luck and yields to the inevitable.

“Pansy,” he greets and offers a tiny nod.

The stiff and motionless silence lasts for four fleeting seconds before Pansy gathers her overflowing skirts and shuffles over. As her softly curved figure presses against him and her arms wound around his neck, he remembers how he liked to think he was in love with her and almost laughs.

She squeezes hard, heaves small shaky breaths and flutters like a leaf in the wind.

“Dear Salazar, I can’t believe it! I thought. . .” She doesn’t reveal what she had thought. Just pulls back enough to take a good look at his face and sighs.

“You poor, miserable bastard,” she says, shakes her head and smiles through unshed tears. For a moment Draco fancies himself a bit in love all over again.

“I’m doing alright,” he assures her and for the first time the lie comes easily.

They talk briefly. Exchange empty nothings and skirt around all the important subjects that neither of them wants to address. The man accompanying Pansy is her husband whose name Draco can’t be bothered to remember. It’s something long and French. In the end, the husband subtly herds Pansy away with gentle words and touches, while casting wary looks at Draco. Pansy refuses to leave without raining dinner invitations behind her, looking pleading and worried all at once.

Draco doesn’t decline but neither says he yes.

…

“So, how did it go?” Weasley asks that Friday and swirls a spoonful of sugar into her tea.

Draco shrugs, but doesn’t know what to say. He focuses on peeling an orange, just to avoid looking directly at her.

Her eyes narrow and mouth pulls downwards. “You _did_ go, didn’t you?”

Draco sighs, “Yes, I did.”

She hesitates for a moment, clearly unsure whether to believe him or not, but nods finally. “Good. Now give me something to work with here.”

“It was fine,” he lies through his teeth.

“Were _you_?” she asks observantly and sips her tea. Draco shoots her a glare, but she seems unaffected and merely waits for him to respond.

“I saw Pansy,” he admits, when the silence gets too pressuring.

The teacup halts hallway to her lips and she stares at him over the rim. “Parkinson?” she asks, curious.

He hums his confirmation and rips his orange into sections.

“ _And_?” Weasley prompts impatiently.

“There is no ‘and’,” he tells her and shrugs again.

She offers a small smile. “There is always an and.”

Draco looks up and for a moment he wonders why she cares so much, why she persists like this.

“There is no and,” he repeats emphatically and on a whim flicks one of the orange sections at Weasly. It bounces off on her forehead and falls into her teacup with a splash. She shoots him an irritated glare, but the shake of her head is more amused than angry.

“You’re an infuriating prat, Malfoy,” she tells him.

His dry, “Only my best for you, Weasley,” makes her smile and Draco knows that she is sufficiently distracted from the topic.

“You should call me Ginny,” she says this time before she departs.

“Goodbye, Ginevra,” he responds, just to spite her.

…

He doesn’t leave the flat again after the trip to Gringotts. He considers it once or twice, but each time he remembers that there is nothing out there for him, so he stays instead. He watches from the window how autumn paints foliage with hues of brown and how people swap for thicker jackets to protect themselves from the wind and the rain.

Weasley’s nagging is relentless and unforgiving, but he develops a remarkable immunity to it over the weeks that roll by. Her visits are the only thing to break the monotony, so he rather welcomes them. He never says as much to her, but he suspects that she knows anyway.

“Don’t you ever actually consider going out there?” she asks once and waves a hand towards the street Draco spends most of his days observing. This time the question isn’t an accusation or a suggestion, but one born out of honest curiosity.

“No. Not anymore,” he replies truthfully.

In fact, Draco is quite determined that he will rot away right here, in this cosy little prison he has created for himself, and it’s perfectly fine. _He_ is fine and he has made his peace with the world.

…

And then on Tuesday a knock at the door tears that wavering peace to shreds.

At first Draco doesn’t know how to react, merely turns to stare at the door frozenly. After a few minutes the knock repeats, and three sharp, resolute beats echo around the flat. He stands up slowly and takes halting steps towards the door. He draws a breath and tries to convince himself that he’s hallucinating, that he has finally gone insane. Two more knocks. If it is a hallucination, then it is the most resilient one he has ever had.

He waits one more knock, just to be sure, before he opens the door.

Harry Potter stands there at his doorstep and offers a wavering expression that is probably meant to be a smile.

“Um, hello,” Potter greets cautiously.

Draco stares for a few heartbeats more and then closes the door in Potter’s face.

“Merlin damn it all,” he mumbles and rubs his eyes tiredly.

Insanity is even more disconcerting than he thought. It does, however, seem to be exactly as persistent as he had always believed, as the knocking returns twice as loud. In some strange, twisted way it almost makes sense that it is Potter who has turned up to torment him in his darkest hour.

Draco yanks the door open again.

“I just want to talk,” Potter says this time and shrugs a little.

“Well, I don’t. So piss off,” Draco responds, but the vision isn’t only stubborn, but it appears deaf as well.

“I’d rather we talk indoors. The neighbours seem a bit shifty,” Potter tells him and glances towards the opposite flat.

“The neighbours can go fuck themselves,” Draco informs him, but Potter only grins wryly.

“You’re still a right git, aren’t you?” he says.

Draco doesn’t reply, only waits.

After a moment, Potter shuffles on his feet awkwardly. “The wards won’t let me in without an invitation,” he hints.

Draco bites back a vicious ‘Good’ and he starts to wonder instead, if this is actually really happening. He doesn’t find that a particularly comforting prospect. Insanity would have been a more welcome houseguest than Potter.

“Ten minutes of your time,” Potter says, “And then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

Potter’s determination is legendary, so it is entirely possible that he could spend the rest of the day knocking at the door and then come back for another round the next day. Draco feels almost petty enough to let him.

“You have five,” Draco finally says and invites him in.

“I’ll speak fast then,” is Potter’s answer and it is a peace-offering of sorts. Draco hums vaguely and prepares for a fight.

Potter looks strange in his small flat and seems to eat up all the little space there is. Draco pushes past him into the kitchen to have some room to breathe and sits down at the table. He doesn’t bother with words but lets his expectant stare speak for him. There has to be a reason why Potter is here, filling up Draco’s flat and wearing on his sanity.

“I have something of yours,” Potter says, as he reaches over to place something onto the table between them with a soft _click_ , “And I think it’s about time I gave it back.”

Draco lets his eyes drop on to the table and breath catches in his throat.

It’s his wand, the same one he had lost to Potter almost eleven years ago. It looks so familiar and foreign at once, a piece of wood and dragon heartstring, utterly insignificant and yet the most important thing in the world.

Draco looks up at Potter and demands, “Why?”

Potter shrugs. “It’s yours and I don’t need it. It seemed only fair to give it back.”

Draco reaches over hesitantly, but can’t quite bear to touch. His fingers hover over the wand, before slowly draw back.

Silence sits still for a moment, before Potter clears his throat and asks, “So, they finally let you out of Azkaban, huh?”

Something small and important snaps in Draco’s head. He snatches up the wand and uses the same momentum to aim it at Potter’s face and watches with glee how the green eyes widen in surprise.

“ _Give me a reason_ ,” he snarls out, violent and ugly.

Potter’s surprise fades into a mocking smirk. “Really? I thought I had done enough already,” he says, a laughter lurking in the words.

Draco wants to wipe that expression from his face so badly that it hurts. His hand tightens around the handle of the wand and incantations dance across his mind. It would be so easy. He takes a step closer, the tip of his wand aimed steady and precise. It would be so _easy_.

“Do it, you coward,” Potter dares then, amusement obvious in his voice. He clearly doesn’t think Draco will, but he’s mistaken. Draco could do it and he probably wouldn’t even regret it.

Ten years in Azkaban. A life time couldn’t be much worse than that. Whatever Azkaban could destroy in him, has already been broken. He has nothing left to lose.

“ _Do it_ ,” Potter repeats vehemently and Draco sees.

The bastard wants him to do it. He wants Draco to cast and kill and finish it all for good. Potter has probably planned this, or at least hoped for it. The realisation irritates Draco even more.

He jabs the moron with the wand violently, before quickly withdraws and turns away.

“Fuck you,” he grits out and pockets the wand. He feels strange, almost jittery and more awake than he has felt once during the past ten years.

Potter heaves a shaky breath and runs a hand through his wild hair. Draco can see the fiery scorch mark on his forehead, right next to the stupid, iconic scar, where the wand had made contact with his skin. It’s a small consolation, but it makes Draco feel better.

“You’re a rude bastard,” Potter tells him and there’s something foreign in his tone. It sounds almost like defeat.

“So I’ve heard,” Draco answers. “Do you want tea?”

“Yeah, sure,” Potter nods, “Why the hell not.”

They drink tea in silence and it’s the most surreal thing Draco has ever done.


End file.
